Fridays at Half Seven
by jin fenghuang
Summary: Five years after the war and all is not well. The dream Harry had of a family, a happily ever after, was just that: a dream. With nothing more interesting than the latest Quidditch scandal to report on, the media has turned to stalking Harry ...
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Fridays at Half Seven  
**Prompt(s):** Optical Illusion, Time Capsule  
**Rating/Warnings/Kinks:** NC17, Polyjuice gender-bending, Dub-con

**Word Count:** +12 000 (all parts together)  
**Summary:** Five years after the war and all is not well. The dream Harry had of a family, a happily ever after, was just that: a dream. Ginny has left him and his friends are caught up in building their own lives. With nothing more interesting than the latest Quidditch scandal to report on the media has turned to stalking Harry, documenting his slow descent into infamy. If only there were a way for him to escape their unwanted attention…

**A/N (Beta's/thank you's/et al):** People I owe big froufrou drinks: Ziasudra, Lesyeuxverts and R. Thank you! And an especial thanks to Djin! Keep the games running, girl!

Go Team!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them, I only borrow them.

THE BOY WHO DRINKS!

Wizarding Hero: Saviour or Souse?

The bold pink letters flashed in tune with Harry's headache. They promised exclusive pictures on page three. He made the mistake of looking. The animated image of himself sicking up into some convenient bushes behind… well, some Muggle pub, pushed him over the edge. He heaved, and the remains of something he did not remember eating splattered onto the floor. A not insignificant part of it hit the _Prophet_. Harry only thought it fair.

Something pecked at him insistently, making impatient hooting sounds. Harry tried to shoo the owl away. It nipped his finger. Hard. He tossed a coin at it. A shrieking owl and a broken window later, Harry decided that the world was conspiring to kill him by making his head explode and that he was going to hide under the blankets till it died in a fire. Or at least until it stopped spinning –

He woke again a couple of hours later, marginally less hung over. And groaned. His bedroom was a mess of broken glass, feathers and …

He barely made it into the bathroom this time.

Stupid war, stupid victory, stupid celebrations. This was all Voldemort's fault.

Harry rested his head on the floor. The smooth cold tiles felt better than they had any right to. He closed his eyes. Just for a second, he promised himself. Just. One. Second …

He woke shivering.

A hot shower and a vial of leprechaun-strength hangover cure later Harry was still not ready to face the world, especially with the muffled explosion noises coming from his study.

Bloody reporters bloody found him in bloody Muggle London. He was going to bloody crucio the next bloody bug he came across.

The mental image of a tiny bespectacled Skeeter writhing in unspeakable pain… Harry left the bathroom showered, dressed, and with a smile on his face.

:::

Harry gave the study door an experimental nudge. There had not been an explosion in at least 10 minutes. It stayed locked, even when he kicked it. Balancing the tea pot, _Quibbler_, sandwiches and the bowl of chocolate trifle between left hand, chin and elbow, he fumbled in his right hand back pocket for his wand. The door opened with a flick. Harry took a step back and cursed himself for not blocking the Floo before going out clubbing last night. The room looked like someone had celebrated Chinese New Year in it. Red bits of paper covered every surface. The air smelled putrid and the exploded Howlers had left stains and scorches on the carpet. Harry kicked the door again. Hard. For one second, he contemplated just closing the door and eating in the kitchen. Let Kreacher deal with the mess. But no, that would not do, not since Ginny… The kitchen felt empty without someone to share it with, without a family. He sighed and entered his study. In moments like this, he all too bloody well understood why Ginny had left him for Dean. He would too, if he could, with the fucking media circus that was his life.

Setting his breakfast down on the desk, he banished the mess with a few well aimed cleaning spells. The mess disappeared and, damn it, with it his copy of the _Quibbler_. Angrily downing half a cup of tea, he grabbed a broom from the rack above the fireplace and stomped out —through the back door — into the yard. The spring air was still crisp, even on a sunny afternoon like this. The sky clear and blue. He flew high and fast, chasing the golden sparkle of the Snitch through the azure sky. A few exhilarating dips and dives later Harry looked at the tiny brass ball fluttering in his fist and frowned. It should have been fun. Was, once, with Ginny. He did not notice the high-pitched metal screech as his fist closed too hard around the Snitch, crushing it. A tiny golden wing fluttered to the ground below.

:::

The week passed and Harry weathered — as well as to be expected — the aftermath of snickers, hushed conversations and concerned enquiries about his well being. He did hex the bloke who had surreptitiously sniffed his coffee mug for booze. And damn, it had felt good.

The weekend, Harry thought, did not come nearly fast enough. On Sunday noon, Harry sat down in his study, a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of butterbeer to his right, next to a tightly rolled piece of parchment. He ignored the bright red Ministry seal and reached for a ham and pickles sandwich. Work for the next couple of weeks, as always around Liberation Day, was an insanely busy time for the Auror corps. At least that would keep the media from badmouthing him for a change, the bastards. They loved singing his praises this time of the year. What was it about that time of the year, though that brought all the nutjobs to the yard to play? He reached for a tuna sandwich – and with them came the paperwork in triple copy. Offing Voldemort had been easy compared to this … oh yes, no one had asked him to write up a stupid report afterwards.

Harry rubbed the dark circles under his eyes. Sleep and coffee really were not the same, not even close. And the Ministry frowned on pick-me-up potions. He had stayed up late the last couple of nights to process files on the self-proclaimed Dark Lord #4. At least, Harry groaned, his division did not deal with disorderly conduct. That was Ron's job. Drunken fights on that day – oh fuck – that week, were a nightmare. Every effing barfly needed to make their view and allegiance known with hexes, fists and bottles. On the downside, though, there was that dreaded fancy dress Ministry of Magic Gala he was obliged – and guilt tripped into by Hermione – to attend. He wondered if Ginny would be there. She was good at keeping the simpering birds away. Damn. Ginny and Dean. Right. Happy, happy family. Why was it that he could not have the simplest things? Others managed to have families, why didn't he? Harry glared at the parchment before him. That blasted speech. If he could have gotten away with it he would have used the same script every year. Well, if he could have gotten away with it he would have spent the day with his good friend Ogden. He bit into the sandwich, savouring the taste. Kreacher just knew how much Miracle Whip he liked. Harry noted, with satisfaction, that the glob of mayonnaise, which had dripped onto the posh creamy parchment, was leaving a slowly spreading stain of grease. Memorizing the speech was its own form of _Crucio,_ but at least he didn't have to write the tripe himself.

He was halfway through reading the mind-numbing dribble he was supposed to parrot Saturday-next when he heard the Floo chime. Puzzled, since he was not expecting anyone this afternoon, he looked up to see Ginny's face hovering in the flames. Grateful for the interruption, he scooted his chair back and walked over to open the grate for her.

"Ginny, what a pleasant surprise."

"Harry, how are you? Can I come through for a second?"

His smile wavered for a second. She didn't used to ask.

"Hiya, great to see you!" Harry extended a hand.

Ginny's smile was a bit watery but she took the proffered hand, gracefully stepping out of the fireplace into Harry's study. He followed her sweeping glance, watched her nose wrinkle in disgust, and was suddenly ashamed of the mess. Ginny brushed soot off her clothes. Still using the cheap kind of Floo powder, he sadly noted, why wouldn't they just let him help?

"Harry, got a minute for an old friend? We… there is something I have to tell you." Gesturing at the scrolls on his desk. "I am not interrupting something important, am I? I mean, I can come back later."

She flinched a bit when he rubbed the soot from her cheek. She wasn't 'his' anymore, how could he forget?

"No, not really. For you, always." Harry tried not to let his disappointment show, but his smile suddenly felt forced. He tried to shrug it off. It was good having her here. The house always seemed so much more cheerful with her around. He had wanted it to work, had wanted them to have a family. Harry Potter never got what he wanted… Looking around at the mess that was his office, he gestured towards the door.

"Why don't we have a cuppa in the kitchen?"

Ginny nodded tightly, preceding him out of the room and into the kitchen in brisk, measured strides. Draping her coat over the back of one of the three pine chairs, she sat down next to the window while Harry busied himself with kettle and teapot.

"You take your tea black with two sugars, don't you Ginny?" Should he try to convince her to stay? Just a little, cheer her up? Maybe for supper…

Harry placed a cup in front of her.

"You know, we should do this more often." He gave her an encouraging smile. "Have tea I mean. Or maybe dinner? You know, we could… on Saturday, after the speech? What do you think, Ginny?"

Harry peered at her over the rim of his spectacles. Ginny didn't meet his eyes.

She sipped her tea in silence, staring out of the window into the winter barren garden. The tick tock of the grandfather clock stretched into leaden silence. Harry sighed, put down his teacup and turned towards the cabinets.

"I am sure Kreacher has some biscuits hidden somewhere…" Harry opened and closed drawers, rummaging through cupboards. She'd always liked the walnut ones, hadn't she? Now where the effing hell were they?

"Ah, there they are. What kind would you like? I have lemon, raspberry tarts, ginger… and I am sure the walnut ones are somewhere in here too!" He winced, hiding in the cupboard again. I really have to stop babbling like an idiot, Harry thought. He pulled out several curiously shaped tins.

"Hey Gin, remember when we bought this at the harvest fair near your parent's place?" He held up a copper Snitch-shaped cake pan, admiring it. Ginny continued staring into her tea, fiddling with the spoon.

"Harry…"

"It was raining thestrals that afternoon and you were wearing only a light jacket. The rain got through no matter how many times we cast that repelling spell. And you hair got all curly and cute and …" Harry smiled at her. "Oh Ginny, don't you remember…" He reached out for her hand, heart warm in pleasant memories.

Ginny stiffened and stared at their joined hands, looking up at him with big brown eyes, swallowing hard. She shook her head.

"Ginny…" He smiled and stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. Ginny flinched, trying to free her hand from his grip.

"Harry! I am getting married."

He pulled his hand back as if it burned. The pan clattered onto the floor.

"What? Who?

"Dean."

"Oh… Is that why you're here? To tell me gently?" Bitterness was clear in his voice. Rule number one, Harry. Rule number one. You never get what you want.

"Harry, it is not as if this is out of the blue." Her voice took on that annoying clipped tone she used when angry at him.

"But, but last year you said you were not ready to… take that step. You told me…" The sudden image of Dean — not him, never him — standing next to her at Platform 9 ¾ waving their children good bye… It made Harry's heart heavy.

"Harry? Look, I'm sorry …" She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a cream—coloured envelope.

He shook his head, running his fingers frantically back and forth through his hair, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"It's alright, Gin. I wish you all the best. I hope that… Right. Do you still want those biscuits?" He proffered her the tin with a fake cheerful smile. "They are really very good."

Ginny stood up, reaching for her coat, clutching her purse in front of her like a shield.

"You really don't have to leave yet, I mean … I am fine with it. Really."

Ginny shook her head taking a step towards the Floo.

"Can we not have tea together, as friends I mean? Friends … These biscuits are really good!"

She looked at her watch. "Oh my god, is it really that late? Harry, look…" She gave him a sad little smile. "I wanted to be the one to tell you." She stood, still clutching the envelope. "I'm glad Ron didn't blab last Thursday." She placed the envelope on the table, and Harry had to force himself not to pick it up.

"Ginny… we can still be friends, can't we?"

She grabbed a handful of Floo powder, turning her back on him. She nodded. "I would like that, someday."

The Floo flared green and Harry kicked a chair. Its leg broke.

"_Incendio!_" Paper burned and rose, raining ashes onto the kitchen floor.

So much for his dreams of a happy family. Harry decided that it had to be 5 pm somewhere and reached for the Firewiskey.


	2. Chapter 2

He knew it was a bad idea. Had known it half a bottle ago. But here he was, in some dingy Muggle bar doing Tequila shots with… Julia, no. Julianne? Judy…damn it, some bird. A red haired Muggle girl. And he was bloody well enjoying himself. With Jean! Who, in the right light, after another drink or two, looked just like Ginny when she tilted her head…

Harry tracked her lips with his thumb, Jane nipped at it. God he had missed that. He pulled her into a kiss. Oh Ginny…

"They never lemme have something for myself. Never! You know…" He leaned his head against her shoulder, burying his face in her long red hair.

"All I ever wanted was a family. My own family! They never lemme have anything!"

"Bastards!" Julie said and smiled at him and poured him another shot. Harry downed it. She was a good listener, he decided, and he liked how her fingers felt on his hair.

Harry did not resist when Janet smiled and kissed him. He did not resist when Jess took him by the hand and pulled him into the back alley. He was going to have fun. Fuck Ginny …

Harry awoke face down on the carpet in front of the Floo — surprisingly not in a puddle of vomit — and looked around. His Floo, thank Merlin.

He certainly had had fun… even when he was a little fuzzy on the details. If pain equalled fun, than he had had a lot of it. Too much, possibly.

:::

THE CHOSEN ONE'S DESCENT

Harry Potter on suicide watch?

Page 3 EXCLUSIVE: Top or Flop, Tracy tells all!

On days like this, Harry wished himself back to his cupboard under the stairs. He took another sip of his coffee. At least the Dursleys had ignored him, most of the time. God, why did office coffee have to be so bad? Harry added two more spoonfuls of sugar, stirred and took another sip. Yep, still horrid. Maybe he could call in sick today… or for the rest of the month. He hadn't pulled a sicky in ages, he had earned one. He'd give a lot to be anyone but himself right now. A paper plane buzzed by his ear and landed on his desk. It politely informed him that Minister Shacklebolt required a word in private at his earliest convenience.

Harry groaned, resisting the urge to _Incendio _the blasted thing. Well, at least it wasn't a Howler. He was not sure the hangover potion had kicked in enough to handle one of those yet. He really should have called in sick when he still had the chance. Damn. He took one look at his Auror robes, frowned and cast a cleaning spell on it, and another for good measure. Fresh winter forest pine scent filled the air. He really needed to ask Kreacher to do laundry tonight. Or go buy some new robes.

Harry ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. Giving himself a last one over, he reluctantly got on his way, calling on all the Gryffindor courage he could muster.

:::

Effing dignity of the effing Auror Corps. It could kiss his arse.

Harry furiously scrubbed at a nonexistent stain on the bathroom floor.

Who did Shacklebolt think he was, Minister for Magic or something? That caulk really looked like it could do with a good scrubbing, too. It was positively filthy.

Not to give Skeeter any more ammunition. As if that bitch needed any. She and that stupid quill of hers. Didn't they see how she pulled most of that stuff out of her arse? God, this was the whole Triwizard shit all over again … only worse. Harry Accioed a toothbrush. He was going to show that caulk. Sudsy water splashed onto the floor. Harry's ears still burned over the talking to he had gotten.

Why did _everyone_ always believe the stupid fucking paper, not him? Ron had pulled worse shit than this and was he getting a talking to? NO! Why did he have to be the Bloody Boy Who Lived? Why couldn't he be like anyone else? It was all he had ever wanted. To be normal.

He squirted more bleach onto the tiles, the harsh chemical smell hanging in the air like punishment.

Drinking problem, my arse. Just because a guy had a drink or two every now and then.

The bucket wobbled under the force of the brush being thrown into it. _What the hell do they want me to do?_ Oh right, be a perfect little dressed up monkey for their stupid fucking gala.

They could all kiss his arse.

Harry glanced at his handiwork and nodded in grim satisfaction.

Now that was a bathroom clean enough to please Aunt Petunia.

Wiping his hands on the tattered pink apron, he decided that his study really could do with some reorganizing.

:::

He stared at the contents of the box, bemused. He vaguely remembered Dudley giving it to him, a couple of years ago, but he had never bothered going through it, accepting it as the peace offering it was. Harry had assumed it contained his old broken toys and other things from his time with the Dursleys; all with too painful memories attached. How wrong he had been. Sitting cross-legged on a Persian rug in the middle of his living room, he carefully placed the contents of the box on the floor around him and started counting his newfound treasures. His mother's treasures. Harry blew the dust of a photo album with little blue violets on the faded cover, a dried-up snow globe with a ballerina tiptoeing on a round little podium, a tortoise-shell brush, several hair clips with tiny rhinestone butterflies in a rainbow of colours, an adder stone on a necklace, a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit and a dried briar rose.

Harry opened the photo-album. Black and white Muggle photos, glued in neat rows – unmoving – to yellowing paper. A bright auburn lock of hair neatly preserved under plastic wrap was a shocking blast of colour in a memory of light and shadow. He flipped the spidery paper over to reveal another page of pictures. A long haired girl, blowing out a birthday candle. Lily, aged nine, the caption said. Oh-my-God was that a young Severus Snape wearing a party hat? Harry suppressed a bittersweet chuckle. Another picture showed a teenaged Petunia sitting behind his mother on a chintz-covered bed brushing Lily's hair. What surprised Harry the most was the faint, loving smile on his aunt's face. It made him wonder what had happened to destroy that closeness. The next picture, though, made him gently touch the paper, choking back tears. On a playground swing, two children hung suspended, high in the air. Their faces bright with joy, their hair flying in the wind. His mother and Snape holding hands, feet swinging free in the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry was sitting in t-shirt and boxers in front of the roaring fire in the living room, reading the sports section of the _Prophet_ and waiting for Kreacher to finish his laundry when the flames suddenly flared green, setting off the Floo alert.

"Oy mate, you alright? I thought I'd check – with the paper and all this morning." Ron's head popped out of the Floo, looking up at him. It was not a flattering look, Harry decided.

"What do you bloody think? That I had offed myself in the bath?"

Harry tossed the _Prophet _into the Floo.

"Ouch. What was that for?"

"Nothing."

"Big freaking nothing. Listen mate, do you want to pop over for a sec? I mean, we haven't seen you in ages."

"If you missed me oh so bloody much, **why**…why didn't you invite me to that party of yours last Thursday?"

Ron had the grace to look guilty.

"How did you…?"

"Shacklebolt CONGRATULATED me on being responsible – for once – and not going to that party. I should do that more often, _not _go to parties I am not _bloody_ invited to."

"We would have invited you but … Its just, mate, Harry… some of us get reprimands for that kind of stuff …" Ron hesitated, running his fingers nervously through his hair.

"What kind of stuff?"

" … and you don't even wonna know what Mum had to say…"

"**And that is **… that is my fault, how?"

"You could try and not make the _effing front page_!"

"MAKE the front page? Do you fucking think I _enjoy _that Skeeter bitch stalking me?"

"Mate, I…Oy Hermione, what now?" Ron's head disappeared and a few seconds later, Hermione's face appeared in the flames.

"Hi Harry, how are you?" she sounded worried.

"Splendid, Hermione, just _splendid_!"

"Why are you in your underwear? Is it a bad time, shall we Floo you later?"

"No, just laundry."

"Hermione, I was talking to Harry, would you mind?" Hermione's head disappeared from the Floo, only their voices audible from the flames. Harry was getting more than slightly annoyed at them.

"What, is he now your friend alone?"

"Well, at least scoot over, will you!" Hermione's head reappeared next to Ron's.

"So, what were you and Harry shouting about? I could hear you all the way to the parlour."

"Harry kinda found out about the party."

"Oh."

"Yes, bloody oh," Ron muttered.

"Hold on, you knew? Who else knew and didn't tell me?" Harry asked. This shit was starting to give him a headache. Did they all conspire against him or something?

"See, I told you, you should have told him. He would have understood, wouldn't you have, Harry?" Hermione's reasonable tone grated on Harry's nerves.

"Well, he bloody well does not understand now, does he now Hermione?"

"He would have if you had told him _before_, Ronald!"

"If *I* had told him before? Since when is it my job to tell Harry? You knew, you could have told him, if you had wanted him to know. Let me tell you what, Hermione, EVERYONE has 100/100 hindsight."

"Ron? …" Oh great another Granger and Weasley Show. How novel. Could those two ever focus on anyone but themselves?

"There is no reason to shout at me, Ronald Weasley!"

"So, about that party…" Harry tried to make himself heard over his friends' raised voices.

"I am not shouting. Harry, am I shouting?"

"Honestly, Ronald, you can never fight your own battles, can you?" She had turned to face Ron, looking severely displeased.

"What do you mean by that?" Ron huffed.

"Oh you know bloody well what I mean." Her voice took on a very petulant Ron-esque whine. "I don't know Mum, Hermione doesn't want children yet!"

"You know how my mother is, what do you expect me to do?"

"How about growing a backbone for once!"

Harry closed the Floo connection. This was going nowhere. Stupid prats. He doubted either of them would notice any time soon. They were supposed to be his friends. Fine friends he had… He really could do with a drink now. Oh right, not even that was allowed anymore.

Harry went and asked Kreacher to make him a hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows on top. And whipped cream.

:::

HOME OF THE BRAVE

Potter's Muggle cousin promoted to Sergeant at Arms

War heroes galore

On the positive side, he had to admit that his office looked much cleaner these days. On the downside, bloody Dudley Dursley had been awarded a medal.

Harry finished filing his bills and shoved the cabinet door shut. He was fuming. No, not just fuming, he was livid.

Lard-arse Duddikins all proud in uniform. On the front page, too. All he ever got these days was scorn and scolding. Seems like The Bloody Boy Who Lived could do nothing right anymore. Damn how he wanted a drink. But those bloodhounds of reporters stuck to his arse worse than Spellotape. If he could only not be himself for day. Or an hour.

Harry blew the dust off the box, wondering how long it had been sitting right there, next to the door. He peeled back the cardboard lid. Ever since Ginny had left, more than a year ago. In it, neatly folded, was the contents of their last shared laundry basket. Clothes she had once worn, clothes she had left. At first, Harry had hoped that she would come back, but later… well, he just never had had the nerve to Floo to the Burrow and… and well, she had never asked for them back, either.

He laid the clothes out on the couch. A couple of sets of underwear and socks, a skirt, a blue button-down shirt. He'd always liked that shirt, it had dozens of tiny Chinese-style buttons. Ginny had never worn it much and complained about the pain in the arse these buttons were to fasten. And a black bra. A frilly black bra.

Harry swallowed hard, fighting back memories that involved creamy skin and a certain black bra. His fingers gently caressed the lacy material, causing shivers that ran straight down to his groin. Snatching up the matching pair of knickers, he held them to his nose and closed his eyes, willing their smell to conjure up the ghost of a memory. The fine lace did catch on his stubble in a most delicious way. The smell, however, was of clean detergent freshness. Desperate to hold onto the pleasant memories promised, his right hand grasped his belt buckle, fumbled with the buttons of his jeans and finally closed around his cock.

Several pleasurable minutes later, after his breath had slowed down and the post—pleasure haze passed, Harry spelled the couch clean. Gathering the clothes back into the box, he smiled.

That had been a bit of alright.

:::

The goo went gloop. It was purple. Parts of it were purple. Some had orange bits floating in it. A particularly vicious glob was eating its way through his kitchen table.

Harry was ready to bang his head against the wall in frustration. Damn it, they had done this in second year. Well, okay, Hermione had done it. He wished he could ask her for help. Maybe he should Floo her.

Right, remember you stupid idiot, not talking to her at the moment? Not that she would approve, anyway. Why did that stupid fiendfyre have to take his precious potions book? He really could do with some advice from his Prince. At least he would understand.

It had been such a brilliant plan. Polyjuice into someone normal and … and well, he couldn't just go buy the darn potion. Skeeter would be onto him like flies on horseshit.

With a swish and flick, Harry banished his horrid attempt at Polyjuice. So much for not being himself for an hour, for having a pint in peace. Maybe he could order a fake moustache…

:::

Harry looked at the Ministry-issued vials of Polyjuice in the supply cabinet. The next mission he was assigned to included undercover investigation. It was tempting.

Harry palmed a few extra vials and left before anyone noticed what he had done. Already planning to return for more potions next week, he decided he would take his sweet time with solving the case.

:::

Harry added the hair to the potion and downed it. It tasted as vile as he remembered, possibly more so. He felt his body change, his clothes suddenly loosening and starting to pool around his ankles. His hands were, his body was…SHRINKING. Harry's legs gave out and he lay on his back, in clothes-covered darkness. Harry tried to sit up and found it impossible.

He rolled over onto his stomach and stemmed himself up on his arms. Fighting with his clothes, he finally gained his freedom and cursed. Or at least he tried to curse; would have cursed if his vocal cords had cooperated. All that came out was an angry wail. Harry hit his fists against the floor in frustration. Goddammit, he should have known that that was baby hair. What kind of creeps kept…

He suddenly felt very tired and decided to take a nap to wait out the Polyjuice. At least the potion only lasted roughly an hour.


	4. Chapter 4

The tortoise-shell brush lay on the bathroom counter. This time it had gone right. He felt his body change, in a well, if not exactly a good way but then definitely the right way. It had been a gamble, what if he ended up looking like his aunt?

Harry shuddered and opened his eyes to look at himself in the mirror, running a hand over his face and through his hair. He sighed in relief. So this is what his mother actually had looked like. Wow. He could understand why Snape and his father had been obsessed with her. She really was very pretty. _Had been_.

He rested his head against the cool glass of the mirror. The past was the past. No need to dwell on it. Neatly arranging his six vials of Polyjuice on the porcelain counter over the sink, he turned his back to the mirror to undress. Some things you really did not want to have your mother watch you doing. Even if it was only yourself in the mirror.

Harry looked at Ginny's skirt, draped over the back of the chair, and shook his head. No, that would not do. It felt… wrong. Well, more wrong than it already did.

No, he was not getting cold feet. Not now. Not after all he had been through already. He was going through with this. His mother would want him to have fun, wouldn't she? It was not as if he was going to do something … ew, no. He was going to have a drink, that was all. Harry squared his shoulders try to make his body display a confidence he didn't feel. Who was going to recognize a woman 20 years de- gone anyway? Right?

:::

Harry sat down on an only empty stool at the bar, next to a scruffy looking man who was mumbling angrily into his beer, smoking a vile-smelling cigar. Inching as far away from him as possible, Harry ordered a pint, washing away the foul aftertaste of the Polyjuice.

He surveyed the room. The air was heavy with smoke and someone had fed the jukebox to play 'Barbie Girl' by Aqua. Twice so far. In one corner, near the loo, several men were playing darts on a board that had seen better days. A blond guy in his twenties, his Manchester United top stretched tight over his chest, seemed to be winning. A pink muzzled mastiff, slobbering onto its owner's feet under a rickety table, was gently growling in its sleep.

The TV, draped with a red and white banner, and badly in need of a _Scourgify_, was mounted to the wooden wall behind the bar. Euro-Sport was soundlessly running, haphazardly watched by some of the patrons. Harry checked his watch. Not even five minutes had passed. He drummed his fingers on the slightly sticky table.

A group of blokes started to hunt for the triangle to set up a game of billiard. Someone asked if they needed help finding their balls. People laughed and some of the men sitting at the bar turned to watch. Another five minutes passed. Harry ordered a second pint. The jukebox changed to 'Sex Bomb'.

Damn he wished his friends were here. Wait, no he didn't. Bastards. They had fun without him. He could do the same. And better!

Harry shifted on the stool, grateful that he was wearing his own clothes. He had tried on the skirt but it had felt wrong – and not in the good way. His jeans fitted odd though, more tight around the hips and a bit too long; the white button-down shirt was a bit baggy and he had rolled up the sleeves to hide just how oversized it was. Altogether, Harry thought he looked presentable. But then why kept that bloke in the cheap brown suit staring at him? Looked like someone had spit into his pint, too.

Harry shrugged and took a sip of his beer. A tall blond man – one of the pool players – in white trainers and a shiny blue track suit winked at him. Harry smiled back, trying to shake the feeling of unease that the creepy bloke staring at him gave him. Something about that man seemed familiar.

"Hiya, sugar, you up for a game?" Harry looked around before he realized that the man had spoken to him. Billiard the Muggle way, that gotta be fun, and it was just a game or two anyway.

Harry shrugged, smiling. "I don't know how?" Harry offered hopefully.

He had only ever played the Wizarding version and was genuinely curious as to how it was done. Dudley and his friends used to go every Tuesday.

"No worries." The man winked again, grabbing hold of his cue. "Pretty bird like you. I sure can teach ya if ya want. Why don't ya join me and me mates?"

Harry hopped off his stool and carried his pint over, spilling some beer onto the floor. Not that anyone would notice, or mind. Or clean up, Harry thought, judging by the stickiness of the floor.

"Names' Dave. That's me mates Andy and Sid." He gestured with his fag in the general direction of the two other blokes. "And that is Spiff." The dog, hearing his name, looked up and growled in recognition.

Harry raised his pint in greeting.

"Hannah."

"Fancy meeting you here, flower!" He leered at Harry.

Harry smiled back, not knowing what to answer to that.

Someone handed him a cue. He took it, propping it up against the table.

"Now look here, sugar, you need to hold the cue this way."

The man, Dave, Harry remembered, stepped up behind him, guiding his hand along the cue.

"See! Nice and firm." His beer—heavy breath sprayed Harry's ear with spittle. "This is how you play billiard."

Harry tried to free himself from the embrace and turned around, only to find himself caught between Dave's arms on both sides of him and the billiard table.

"Mate, listen. I don't think …"

Dave pulled Harry close to him, one hand squeezing Harry's arse, which made him squeak indignantly.

"I say…" Dave grinned with a glazed look in his eyes. "I say, how about a kiss …?" Dave leaned closer and got punched in the face. He staggered back, holding his jaw, a look of astonishment on his face.

"What the fuck, you bitch! What was that for?" He grabbed Harry's arm, trying to pull him closer again. Harry managed to yank himself free but was cornered by Dave's friends.

"Now, Petal" the one named Andy stepped into Harry's personal space. "This ain't how you treat one of my mates!" He raised his hand to strike when a loud commanding voice hollered from across the room.

"That will be quite enough!"

People turned to identify the new participant in their free entertainment, some quietly muttering their approval of this turn of events. It was the middle-aged skinny man that had given Harry the creeps earlier.

Harry sighed. Not really prince charming to the rescue then. If he could just get his hands onto his wand, all would be fine. He inched closer to his bag, if he could just get close enough...

"What business is it of yours Marcus? That bird a _friend_ of yours, pal?"

Some patrons laughed at that.

Marcus casually pushed himself off the bar where he had been nursing his drink and walked over with long, well—measured strides, looming over Andy. Well, more looming _at_, since Andy had a couple of inches on the man.

"I can see that she is not a friend of yours either!"

"Marcus, fuck off!" Dave, still holding his jaw where Harry had punched him, glared at the older man. "Tis between me and that fucking bitch!"

"Oh yes, and what if I don't, Dave, what are you going to do?" Marcus stepped in front of Harry. "Surely even you would not stoop so low as to hit a woman."

"What the bloody fucking hell is wrong with you all! I am leaving." Harry shoved his wannabe protector out of the way, reaching for his bag.

"Shut up, bitch!"

"Don't you dare call her a bitch!" Marcus had stepped threateningly close to Andy, his face red with fury.

"I call her anything I want, you twat!"

Marcus pushed Andy on the shoulders, making him stagger backwards against a nearby table.

"You will fucking regret that."

Dave grabbed Harry's arm, as Harry was casually aiming towards the door. "Now, where do you think you are going, poppet?"

The air started to vibrate with magic, making the windows rattle.

Marcus turned around, face red with anger.

"Do not use magic here," his whispered command harsh with anger. "How many of those apes do you think the Aurors can …"

A big hand closed on Marcus' shoulder, roughly spinning him around.

"What did you git just call me?" Not even waiting for a reply, Andy's fist hit Marcus' nose with a sickly crunching sound.

"Marcus. Andy. ENOUGH!" The barkeeper had a voice like foghorn, making himself heard above the din with practised ease.

"The next one who raises so much as an eyebrow is out for a month! Understood?"

The men looked down, defiantly.

"I didn't hear you?"

"Yes, Ted, understood." They chorused in what seemed to Harry well practiced obedience.

The barkeep nodded and went back to pulling a pint. "Just so that we are clear."

It seemed to Harry that this was not a first time occurrence.

Not that Harry cared. He grabbed his bag and stormed out of the pub without so much as a backwards glance.

He was halfway down the street, searching for a good hidden spot to Apparate home from, when someone grabbed his arm. He hadn't even heard the footsteps approaching. Harry found himself spun around, facing Marcus. He forcibly yanked his arm free, stepping back.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing!"

"I could ask you the same! What were you thinking? Magic in a place like that. Do you want to spend the night in the Ministry's holding cells?"

"What? Why would they …?"

"Do you think you are so special, little _girl_, that they would just let you go? Escort you home? Make you a hot cocoa?"

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Harry yelled at him. He had had enough for one night.

"An apology wouldn't bloody hurt. I saved your arse in there! You ungrateful little …!"

"No one fucking asked you for your help. Arsehole!"

Marcus pressed his blood-soaked handkerchief to his broken nose.

"Well, it was my pleasure, you ba- bitch. See if I save your sorry arse ever again. If you feel like displaying your everlasting gratitude, you bastard –" Blood was trickling down his chin, staining his white cotton shirt. "I come here every Friday. Half seven!"

The last word rang loud like thunder in Harry's ears as he retreated.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry turned over in his bed and punched his pillow. Again. Bastard. Should not have intervened. None of his bloody business. Not as if I needed help anyway.

The alarm clock ticked away, slowly approaching three am. Should not have… did he ever get an icepack for that nose?

A small but growing part of Harry's conscience, which sounded remarkably like Hermione in full lecture mode, nagged at him that no, the man should not have, but he had saved his arse.

Harry probably could have taken them all; he was a wizard, a fully trained Auror, thank you so very much. But – and that was the crux – not without Andy or Dave or that other fucker getting in at least a punch or two. And that was not taking the stupid dog into the calculation.

Harry cringed at the memory of the sound of the nose breaking. That had to have hurt. At four am, Harry admitted that yes, he had been a prick and that yes, that Marcus bloke kinda deserved an apology. A little one. Harry fell asleep thinking that at least he knew where and when he could find him.

:::

"So…" Marcus looked at him with a rather exasperated expression, not bothering to get up from his seat. "You do have some nerve, showing your face here again, you know that."

Harry gave him a nervous little smile, shuffling his feet.

"Well, I … look, I am sorry." He blushed harder than he had anticipated, definitely one of the downsides of being a temporary woman. He stammered on, looking to the ground. "I ... I behaved like an arse. I just, well … I wanted to say thank you for stepping up for me."

"And…?" Marcus raised and inquiring eyebrow, peering past the thick white bandage held down with some kind of brown medical tape, his voice still cold and flat with annoyance.

"And I was wondering if I can buy you a pint…" Harry smiled nervously, running his hand through his hair. "As an apology… unless, I mean, you do drink, don't you?"

Marcus looked him straight into the eyes, reminding Harry uncomfortably of a certain Professor of his. Then he nodded, his expression slightly more welcoming.

When Harry didn't move, he gave Harry an annoyed glance.

"Good heavens, I do drink. This is a pub, after all. The barkeep knows what I like."

Harry sighed with relief and went over to the bar. He ordered the drinks and suppressed a curse at the price. Someone was milking it. But Harry guessed, with the broken nose and all, that he deserved it.

He put the drink down carefully in front of his prickly and high maintenance rescuer.

"You'd better enjoy that."

"I had all the intention to." The man had the nerve to smirk at him.

Harry racked his fingers through his hair again and winced as his fingers snagged at the long tangles.

"Look, can we start over again… my name is Ha- Hannah." He held out his hand.

"Marcus."

They shook hands.

"No hard feelings?" Harry asked.

"It's a bit early to say that, isn't it?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I think you already did, but you may ask another."

"How gracious of you. Well, I was wondering… how do you know I was about to use magic? Are you a wizard?"

"No."

"So, how did you know?"

"That would be another question. I think I have earned myself another drink."

"You are milking this…" Harry growled but went over to bar to buy another round.

"As far as it will go."

The drink was placed before him. Marcus ogled it suspiciously.

"This better not be the cheap stuff."

"As if I would dare."

"So…"

"Aunt Eileen's a witch."

Harry looked him over. Several pieces fell into place. Could it be? Marcus looked like a slightly younger, slightly fitter version of his dead teacher. How, Harry thought with more amusement than was nice, Snape would have looked like if he hadn't been hit so hard with the ugly stick at birth.

"Sheesh, you really are related to him!"

Marcus gave him a puzzled look. "Him? Sure, I am related to him, and her for that matter." He snorted. "Mind making a bit more sense?"

"An old teacher of mine, Severus Snape. You do look like him …"

"Severus? You mean cousin Severus. Tall, grumpy, never washed his hair? Kind of a git when crossed?"

Harry giggled.

"What?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing. Just… You pegged him pretty well."

"I LOOK like him. I think that makes you owe me at least one drink. At least."

When he returned, Harry took a sip of his third pint and shrugged.

"Sorry, I guess. Sure. This evening is on me. You know, since it is just you and me ... I kinda had a crush on him in school…"

"You WHAT?" Marcus spluttered, reached for a paper napkin and dabbed the scotch from his chin. "You did that on purpose. Be glad you are the one paying for the drinks…"

"Hah, bloody hah." Harry tried to cover his unease by taking another sip from his mug. "I have carried a torch for him ever since… In my sixth year…"

"Who in their right mind would have a crush on m— my cousin?" He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Are you pulling my leg? You sure we are talking about the same person?"

"I doubt many parents were … well I don't think Severus is that common a name."

"You never know. Some of those friends of his… prissy bloke named Lucius…"

Flipping the wallet open, he shoved a yellowing photo under Harry's nose. It was a family picture, clearly taken in someone's backyard in summer. In front of a three-tier layered cake -with a large gilded '40' on top of it - stood a middle-aged couple surrounded by what Harry assumed to be their children and relatives. Marcus tabbed his finger at a tall scowling figure in a black Muggle suit.

"This Severus, right?"

Harry took one look at the familiar sinister figure and nodded. Yep, that was Snape in all his sour-faced glory and those definitely were Snape's parents. Unfortunate combination of genes. Very unfortunate. He recognized the woman from the picture Hermione had shown him. Marcus stood off to the right, next to a balding version of Snape's father.

"Yes, that is him. When was it taken?"

"Aunt Eileen's and Uncle Tobias' 40th anniversary. Six years ago. Severus died, you know. Not even a year later. In that stupid war of theirs."

"I'm sorry." Harry's voice was small. Memories flooded him. He should have gone back for Snape. Should have, but in the pandemonium all around him, he hadn't remembered. I hadn't been important then and when he had remembered Snape's body had been gone. Snape alone, dying with no one there caring … It was still haunting him in his nightmares.

Marcus slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses wobble and more than one patron turn their head. His voice was a low dangerous hiss.

"Sorry, whatever for? Did you kill him? They never even gave his body back. Aunt Eileen was in tears for months. The magical government of your kind didn't even let her have a funeral for her son."

They had never found Snape's body, this was true, for a few futile months Harry had kept on searching. Without result. It was generally assumed that some Death Eaters had taken their revenge… Harry shuddered at the thought.

The jovial undertone that had been there before was gone, their conversation gone stale.

Marcus excused himself not much later. Something about work. Harry was about to stay, but remembering last week's incident, he didn't. Following Marcus out into the street, he called out for him to stop.

The dim streetlamps every 50 yards or so gave just enough light to outline eerie shadows.

"Look, Marcus. Wait!"

Marcus turned around and looked at him with unreadable eyes.

"They, we didn't do right by him. He was a hero. He really was."

"Is that why you stopped me? To wallow in the memory of the dead?" Scorn clear in his voice.

"No, actually… I had a good time. Tis more fun, you know, having someone to talk to…"

Marcus gave him a curt nod.

"Well, don't leave me hanging here like this. Are you going to be here next Friday?"

"Half seven. I think I might even buy my own drinks."

"What about me?"

"You can buy your own drinks, too, of course."

"Git!" Harry said to the retreating back, but he smiled as he said it.


	6. Chapter 6

Mate,

We are going to the Burrow on Friday, you coming?

- Ron

Sorry,

I don't have time, am meeting a friend.

- Harry

Harry,

When you are done pouting, you know where you can find us.

- Hermione

P.S. The dinner is at 6 pm.

I am not pouting. I do have other friends.

- Harry

:::

When Harry arrived at the Kings' Arms this time, Marcus was not there. Had not arrived yet, Harry told himself and tried to shove that horrible feeling of disappointment back down. He shrugged and ordered a bottle of cider instead.

Euro-Sport showed a snooker tournament. Harry sipped his cider trying to make sense out of it all and failed. Boredom was creeping up. Harry decided, after about half a pint that the cracks in the plaster behind the bar kind of reminded him of an exploding giraffe. If he tilted his head right. He took another sip of his cider. Why was he doing this again? Oh right, a drink with friends. _Who don't bloody show._ Yay for peace and quiet.

"Oh, look there, if it isn't She-ra." Andy, pint in hand, swaggered over to him.

Harry groaned. So much for peace and quiet. His fingers closed around his wand in his bag. Being a girl did have its advantages, he surmised, and carrying a bag was one of them. Hiding things in plain sight without the need of even a glamour, the Auror in Harry liked the idea.

"Hallo Andy, got evicted from under your rock?" Harry gave him a wide unfriendly smile.

Andy grabbed a chair and sat down. "Why so frosty? You still cross 'bout last week? Just a little misunderstanding among friends. Cheer up, petal!"

"You are not my friend. Besides, that seat is taken."

"Oh yeah, well, it looks plenty empty to me. Can't have a pretty girl like you sit here all by yourself. Tis not safe!"

Harry groaned inwardly. "You don't say. Why don't you make it safer by leaving. I can look out for myself. Now shove off!"

"Why, waiting for you boyfriend?" Andy gave him a toothy smile. One of his teeth blinked in the light.

"Exactly! And he will be here any minute."

"Right…" Andy snorted into his drink.

The door opened and with a gust of warm night air, a tired-looking Marcus walked in. Harry jumped up, throwing himself at the perplexed man, and hissing into his ear. "Play along, I told him you are my boyfriend. There is a drink in it for you." He kissed Marcus on the cheek.

"Hi there, Marcus." He cooed, batting his eyelashes.

Marcus snorted and raised an eyebrow, but suffered Harry leaning against him.

"I believe that is my seat." Marcus' voice low and dangerous.

Andy, apparently not keen on relearning last week's lesson – or worse, getting banned by Ted – took his pint and flipped them off and walked over to the bar, grumbling to himself.

"Now get off me!" Marcus pushed Harry away, brushing imaginary lint of his sleeve.

Harry stepped back, giving him a big goofy grin. "Thanks. He was being a pain."

"When is he not…"

Harry giggled, and then frowned. Sometimes this 'new' body just crept up on him. He had just _giggled_. How mortifying. And never mind the stupid blushing.

The air in the tiny pub was hot and stuffy, heavy with smoke and unwashed bodies. Harry looked longingly at the window where a soft night breeze gently moved the leaves of the elm outside. He nudged Marcus.

"There is an awesome curry place down two or three blocks. Wonna grab a bite? Their Vindaloo is to die for."

Marcus made a noncommittal noise.

"Oh come on, it is way too nice outside to stay in here."

"You buying?" Marcus quirked an eyebrow at him.

"If that is what it takes…" Oddly, Harry found he did not mind.

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, their arms brushing now and again. Then Marcus put his arm around Harry's shoulder, pulling him close. Harry stiffened for a second but then relaxed. There was nothing to it. He hooked his arm around the taller man's waist and snuggled closer. He was Hannah, after all. And that tiny nagging voice could just bugger off and take its buts and ifs and … and it felt too good, too right.

:::

Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gulping down some beer to ease the burn. "Awesome!"

Marcus poked his curry with a spoon. "You have the taste buds of teenage boy," he grumbled, but took a hesitant bite, swallowed and nodded his approval. "It will do."

Harry beamed, for some reason that sounded like high praise.

"Told you! Their Vindaloo is beyond awesome." Taking another bite, he leaned back in the wobbly plastic chair.

"So, what was my cousin like? I mean as a teacher."

Harry tilted his head, trying to think of a non-offensive answer.

"He was strict. To tell you the truth, he and I, we didn't get along too well."

"How's that?" Marcus took a sip of his beer, not looking at Harry.

"Well, first of all I was in Gryffindor and he was the Head of Slytherin. You do know about the houses, don't you?" When Marcus nodded and Harry continued. "I misjudged him from the beginning. I am not proud of it, but hell he did make that easy. And then he killed the Headmaster."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "He did _what_? I never liked him that much, but a murderer? Are you sure? Why would he do that?" Marcus' grip tightened on the bottle, his knuckles white, his eyes boring into Harry's.

"He killed the Headmaster. I saw him do it." Harry saw a storm forming on Marcus' face and hurried on. "No, wait. You misunderstand. Oh man, this is complicated. The headmaster wanted him to. Snape was a spy, you know." Harry gave him a hopeful look, whishing him to understand. Marcus gestured him to carry on.

"What he did was very brave. I wish I had told him back then, but I didn't know. Not that it matters one way or another now. I tried to get him his Order of Merlin, you know."

"Was that before or after that crush of yours?"

"Wouldn't have mattered. He didn't like me." Harry picked at the label of his beer.

"Are you sure? He had a thing for redheads. Pity you never told him. But then, just between the two of us I always though he was flaming." Marcus picked up his spoon and continued eating.

Harry's heart sped up. His Prince could have liked him back! Or not, he thought bitterly. _I am still 'Harry Bloody Potter'._ And… and he is dead.

They finished their curry in silence and afterwards Harry excused himself to the loo to take another dose of polyjuice. When he came back he found Marcus smiling at him. He smiled back.

"Enough of ghosts and memories. I didn't mean to ruin the mood. Come on, let's go for a walk." Marcus opened the door for him when they left. Harry found he rather liked that. They walked down the deserted street, past townhouses and a corner store, when Marcus surprised him by taking his hand and pulling him through wrought iron gates into a playground.

"Hop on!" Marcus pointed at the wooden seat of the swing. "I'm going to push you!" Harry tilted his head in question. "Come on, Hannah, it will be fun!" Marcus coaxed. Harry sat, hands closing around the rough hemp of the rope. Marcus stepped up behind him, grasping the swing, pulling Harry back, close enough for him to smell the spicy remnants of Marcus' soap. Harry leaned into the contact, inhaling deeply. He could feel Marcus' lips nearly touching him, his breath tickling Harry's skin and for a moment, touching him right behind the ear. "I have always wanted to do this." Marcus let go.

Harry was flying, gentle pushes bringing him higher and higher, the night sky twinkling with diamonds.

"Come join me!" Harry gestured to the other swing, sitting all still and lonesome in the dark. Marcus seemed reluctant, but did as asked. Somewhere in the distance a door opened. Music and laughter escaped into the night, tangling, ghosting over the playground in sweet eerie melodies. The night breeze picked up, carrying with it the heady scent of lilacs in bloom.

"Hannah?"

Harry turned his head. Marcus had reached out his hand. Without thinking, Harry grasped it and they swung in tandem in the night sky.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry was humming to himself when he got home next Friday night. They had been to see a Muggle film. Some sappy romantic tragedy about a sinking ship, but he hadn't minded. He hadn't had so much fun in ages. He wondered if Marcus would like to come over one day, they could go flying. It hit him then and there. Nothing was real. It was all but a Polyjuice induced dream. Trying to recapture the exuberant mood of the evening, trying not the wallow in the despair that came with realizing that everything good in his life was build on a lie, a deception, Harry vowed to hold onto this for as long as he could.

:::

Harry added the hair and downed the Polyjuice. It still tasted just as foul as it always had but now with bitterness of the aftertaste came the anticipation of spending a few more precious hours with Marcus. His hand caressed the fine cotton of the skirt. He was nearly out of hair, by his estimation he had three hours left. If he cut it close, dangerously close. Maybe… maybe if he… Ginny was a redhead, he could use a glamour. But no glamour could hide that Ginny was about half a foot taller than Hann— his mum. He mused for a second on how he had not thought of Ginny since, well, since he met Marcus.

In a way, he admitted to himself, that was good. He sighed, gathering all his infamous Gryffindor courage. It was now or never. He waited for his body to finish morphing, put on the skirt and on a second thought, feeling slightly naughty, the black lace bra as well.

Wolf whistles greeted him when he entered the pub but to his eternal relief, Marcus was already waiting for him at the bar, giving him an unreadable but very intense stare. It made Harry's spine tingle as he walked over. Before Harry could object, he was pulled into a possessive embrace. Harry squeaked indignantly but did not otherwise protest, his hand tentatively sliding over Marcus' back, enjoying the feel of being wanted of anther person in his arms.

"Li- Lovely. You look lovely tonight." Marcus' voice was rough with emotion, his fingers touching the blue butterfly hairclip that was holding back the long red hair.

Ted, the barkeeper, was leaning over the counter, giving them a broad saucy grin.

"The bird still buying your drinks, Marcus?" Ted gave her a playful leer. "What is a pretty girl like you doing buying a bloke drinks, anyway?" He winked at her.

Marcus sighed. "Not you, too!" His arm tightening possessively around Harry's shoulder.

"Maybe I LIKE buying him drinks." Harry sneaked an arm around Marcus' waist, pulling him close. "What is it to you anyway?"

Marcus freed himself from the embrace, looking cross. He slammed a twenty on the table. "Two scotch!"

They sat down at grimy table near the bar.

"Hey, stop grumbling." Harry gave him a small nudge with his foot.

"I'm not."

"Are too. You have been staring into that glass of yours for at least three minutes. Anything wrong? You cross with me or something?"

Marcus gave Harry a calculating stare and ran a hand through his hair, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Let's play a game. A drinking game. I will ask you a question. You can choose to answer with a lie or the truth. If I guess right, you drink. If I am wrong, I will. And the other way around. What do you say?"

Harry shrugged. "Sure, sounds fun..." Marcus gave him an evil grin.

"I start. What city did you grow up in?"

:::

Several rows of drinks and a couple of increasingly embarrassing questions later, Harry excused himself to the bathroom to take his Polyjuice. Swaying not a little, he fumbled in his bag for the bottle when he heard the door open.

Before he could react, he found himself spun around and shoved against the stall door. "Hallo there." Marcus' voice was low and incredibly sexy. Harry moaned and arched into the touch, arched against Marcus' very male body, running his hand over Marcus' very male body, his alcohol-fogged brain protesting that this should not feel so good. It should not feel so right either. Instead, Harry kissed him, with tongue and lips and teeth. Marcus' hand slid over his blouse, cradling Harry's boobs. Their fingers entwined and Marcus held their joined hands fast over Harry's head, pressing him against the wall.

Breaking the kiss, Marcus stepped sideways, rubbing his thigh against Harry's crotch, his prick hard and hot against Harry's leg. Finally managing to free one hand from Marcus' vice-like grip, Harry ran it up his chest, pulling at Marcus' shirt, desperate to touch skin. Marcus' hand started to caress the inside of Harry's thigh, rubbing a sharp thumbnail over the slick spot on his cotton panties. Deepening the kiss, two of his fingers slipped under the elastic.

"You want this!" Marcus caressed Harry, making him gasp and wriggle in pleasure.

"Yes, oh god yes..." Harry gasped, bearing down on the delicious touch, trying to make it go deeper. Marcus stepped back with a calculating smile on his face. He sniffed his moist fingers then ran his tongue up between index and middle finger. Harry moaned.

Marcus let go of Harry's hand and unbuckled his own belt, letting his trousers drop to his knees. Grasping Harry's hand again, their joined fingers rubbing over the bulge in his pants.

"But do you want this…" An evil smile formed on his lips as he forced Harry's hand to rub harder. Harry swallowed hard, his fingers closing first tentatively then eagerly over the slick want beneath.

"Yes."

Marcus blinked, as if in shock, then kissed Harry hard. Harry felt his panties ripped down, his left thigh lifted and supported by a strong hand.

"You are mine!" Marcus kissed him possessively.

"Yes!"

Marcus blinked again, as if confused, startled by the admission but then nodded.

"Yours, only yours."

He kissed Harry again, possessively, taking him with one slow glorious move of his hips. Harry knew he should stop, knew he should do many things, none of them – oh god, yes – none of them should be mirroring Marcus' passion. Harry's skirt bunched up around his hips, his fingers digging into Marcus' shoulder blades with every delicious, desperate thrust, leaving tiny purple bruises on the pale skin. With one last deep moan Marcus came, biting down hard on Harry's neck.

It seemed like it took them forever to stop panting. They stood silently, leaning into each other, waiting for their breaths to slow.

Harry ran his fingers through Marcus' short brown hair, enjoying the feel of… Black hair.

Harry watched in fascinated horror as Marcus' hair darkened and lengthened, becoming greasy to the touch.

Snape stepped back, buttoning his shirt, a look of smug amusement on his face. Harry looked at him in utter horror. "But, but … you're dead!"

Snape smirked in a way that made Harry want to punch him. "The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Harry blinked. "What? You, you Bastard! You fucking bastard!"

Snape zipped his trousers, brushing imaginary lint of his clothes, a cool superior look on his face. "You aren't a bad fuck, Potter. Even in drag."

Harry saw red. His fingers shaking he reached for his wand, ready to cast every Unforgiveable he knew or could, in his anger, make up.

The crack of Snape Apparating echoed off the tiled walls and all Harry could do was take out his anger on the wooden door of the loo. For now.


	8. Chapter 8

That bastard, that goddamn bastard. A window shattered, showering the stall behind him with shards of his anger. Shrieks of confusion erupted from the bar.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to gain control of his magic again. Trying to gather himself enough to Apparate home. His hands clenched to fists, fingernails drawing blood in the effort.

Who does he think he is? Effing git had to have known from the beginning. Harry tried to pull the remainder of his pants back up, willing them to fit his changed body, hands shaking, fumbling to close the buttons of his blouse. Part of Harry felt like crying. He had liked Marcus. Really liked him. He stomped on that feeling with all his might. Marcus was not real, had never been real. Damn it.

Not caring if he splinched himself, Harry Apparated home in a fury. He was going to hunt that bastard down. Oh yes. And then kill him and then resurrect him and kill him again. There would be no rock left in all of Britain that Snape could hide under.

:::

Back home in his study Harry pulled out the ornate Pensieve he had inherited from Dumbledore. The Headmaster's words echoing in his mind. _Trust him._ Lovingly running his fingers down the carved runes he choked back the emotions welling up in him. Harry grabbed the rim, knuckles white with tension, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall, or at least topple it over. Trust him. Yeah, that had worked out _so_ well.

Harry pulled open the left wooden drawer on his office desk, rummaging through the debris of years of 'I will sort it when I got time' filing till his fingers closed around the cold glass of the vial Harry had stored Snape's memories in after the war. Pulling the stopper out with his teeth, he poured the quicksilver tendrils into the stone basin.

Harry tried to go through Snape's memories methodically, trying to detach himself from the past they contained. That bastard. That utter bastard. He hadn't looked at the memories in a while but remembered all too well his obsession with them right after the war. How he had idolized the man back then. Bastard, bastard, bastard. He had even considered naming one of his kids after him. Back when he and Ginny... Harry 's fist hit the table hard enough to make him wince in pain. Oh, fuck them both!

He poked his wand at the silvery strands swirling past, snatching glances and fragments of the secrets they contained. Snape on his knees begging Voldemort. Snape and Lily playing tag at dusk. Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Snape was a git. Had to be a git. Why else had he ...

Another memory swam into focus. Snape, pimply face giving him away to be in the remnants of his teens, sitting on the dirty Azkaban floor, his dark mark a stark outline against his pale skin. A brave git, Harry relented, but an effing git nonetheless. And then there it was, floating just out of reach, in the background. Harry plunged his head into the memory and found himself sucked into the swirling vortex to be spat out on the cold wet street of an industrial town. Windswept houses in a run-down neighbourhood that probably even in its better days had been the bad part of town. He looked around, taking a few steps, ignoring the skinny teenager in dirty jeans who huddled in the shelter of a demolished bus station, cupping his hands to light a soggy homeroll. The bus sign read: Spinners End. Harry grinned. Gotcha!

Harry looked around, squinting his eyes, trying to commit as many details to memory as he could, well aware that the place must have changed a lot in the past, say, thirty years. The last thing he needed was to end up in a tree. Or, more likely, a broken down car or a burning rubbish bin. Retreating from the Pensive he pictured the sinister weather-beaten houses in his mind, flicked his wand and Apparatedwith a leap of wrath.

He appeared with a loud, angry pop in what once must have been a tiny rose garden. And cursed, the ancient brambles cutting through his trousers and pricking his skin like barbed wire did nothing to improve his mood.

"Point me to Severus Snape." Harry watched his wand spin, the tip coming to rest pointing at the door behind him. Even Snape's sodding yard had to be hostile. Harry plucked a thorn from his jeans. How bloody fitting.

"_Bombardo!_" Snape's door jerked in its hinges but stood strong. The flaking, peeling paint seemed to mock Harry. Unleashing the full force his fury held, he cast again. "_BOMBARDO!_"

The door exploded. Wood and metal went flying, ricocheting off walls, the force of Harry's magic embedding them into the ancient plaster in the hallway. All that remained were rusty hinges, screeching, swinging doorless with the force. Harry nodded. It felt good. Real good.

The hallway was gloomy and derelict, plaster peeling in big flakes off the once whitewashed walls. Threadbare, brown carpet ran up the stairs to the first floor, in more places than not so worn that the linoleum showed through, yellowish and cracked. Harry could make out two doors in the gloom, both closed, both forbidding. A small sliver of light crept into the hallway from the one further down, outlining it eerily against the darkness. Fragments of a – Harry blinked – he knew that song.

…_was a rose in Spanish Harlem …_

Aunt Petunia had that record, he was sure. He had had to listen to it many a time when, he shuddered, she and Vernon had a _romantic_ evening. Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge the unnatural images from his mind. Snape and his aunt both. What the hell...

Harry inched into the hallway, his wand drawn, quivering under the tension. Snape had to have heard. There was no way in living hell that he could have missed not one, but two Bombardos. He had to be home, too, with the light and the music on. What was that bastard playing at?

"I know you're home!" Harry yelled into the echoing darkness. Trying to put a confidence in his voice that he did not feel any more.

The door swung open with a creak, light and music spilling out into the hallway. Harry stopped dead in his tracks. Swallowing hard. So this was it.

"Snape?" Annoyed with himself, with his own reluctance, he took one forceful step into the room. He had faced Voldemort and lived, surely Snape could not measure up to that? Surely? Snape sat in an upholstered armchair with yellowing knitted antimacassar, cradling a mug of tea. A lopsided chintzy lamp was attached to the wall besides him. And he was bloody smirking.

… _my one and only …_

"Why, Mr Potter. What a surprise, I didn't hear you knock. Do come in." The calm sarcasm in Snape's voice made Harry's blood boil. Snape put his mug down on the stack of books that moonlighted as a side table. Harry watched him, suddenly not sure what to do now that he was here, mesmerized, frozen by the whole surrealism of the scene and his utter lack of a plan.

… _living doll … living doll… living doll_

"Do excuse me." Snape got up calmly walked over and thumbed the record player. "It always gets stuck at this song. Oh and if you would be so kind: _Accio_ Potter's wand!"


	9. Chapter 9

The wet smack of his wand hitting the palm of Snape's hand snapped Harry out of his apathy. He gritted his teeth. That man had nerve...

Hands balled to fists he advanced on Snape ready to strike, with bare force if necessary. Snape so had it coming.

He even made it halfway across the room before, with a casual flick of Snape's wand, Harry found himself frozen in place. Unable to so much as blink, he watched as Snape pushed himself up out off his raggedy armchair and with exaggerated care flicked away lint from his sleeve. Harry seethed.

All Harry could do was suffer in silence, Snape's greasy, slimy magic sliding over him holding him fast, his rage rendered futile, bottled up, filling him with the red hot desire to Crucio Snape till kingdom come.

Snape stepped closer, looking him up and down as if he were some disgusting specimen in a jar ready to be cut up for a potion. Harry loathed that self-satisfied smile. Loathed Snape taking his sweet time to smooth and fold the evening newspaper he had been reading.

"My what do we have here: Potter, the proud _hero_. What a _truly_ Gryffindor plan." His wand still pointed at Harry he circled around him, taking no pains to hide the gloating in his voice. "Masterfully executed, I must say." Snape stepped behind Harry, mere inches away from touching. Harry could feel Snape's breath brush against his ear, could feel the heat of his presence, smell the familiar scent of Marcus' cologne. A shiver ran through him, making him glad that the spell hid his reaction. How he hated Snape at that moment. Hated how he was not Marcus. Hated his own impotence. Hated how he could not snap his head back and break that ugly nose of his.

Snape took a step back, giving Harry a long slow once over. " Even though, I am surprised, I must say, that you are not wearing a skirt." Snape sat back down with the same infuriating prissy care, taking a sip of his tea, twirling Harry's wand between thumb and index, looking smug beyond words. "What a pity, you do have the legs for it. Now, what shall I do with you ..."

Do to him? _Do_ to him? That bastard, that sodding bastard. With the memorizes of that night in the pub flooding back, fresh and hot and angry, Harry felt the tsunami of his magic sweep over him, freeing him in an earth-shattering wave of power. Window rattled under the magical force and caught Snape in the center, throwing him backwards, wand flying under the impact of his armchair hitting the floor. Tea spilled on the floor, trickling from a crack in the pot, an amber puddle quickly being soaked up by an ancient throw rug.

Legs in the air, movements sluggish, bereft of his former grace, Snape tried to scramble to his feet with his his dignity intact but Harry was faster. "You fucking bastard, did you think you could get away with this?" Harry loomed over him, seething. He reached down and pulled Snape to his feet by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the nearby wall for good measure.

"Let go off me, Potter!" Snape tried to kick him, pushing against Harry's chest.

"Fuck you, Snape!" Harry pushed him against the wall again, noting, with satisfaction, that Snape's head hit the plaster with a crack. Snape stopped struggling, glaring at Harry.

"And here I thought you enjoyed being fucked like your mother." Snape's voice had lost its smugness, the word were hissed, as in pain. He winced when Harry shook him, each impact with the wall showering them with tiny flakes of dust. "You. Sick. Fuck. I hate you. I HATE you! "

Snape fought to get free. "Me? Sick?" His voice dripped with contempt. "I am _not_ the one who Polyjuiced into Lily. Let fucking go of me!" Harry tightened his grip as Snape struggled, surprised and disgusted at how easily he could hold Snape, how little resistance the man could muster.

"God you are pathetic, you know that?" Harry shoved him against the wall again for emphasis. A trickle of blood soaked into the plaster where Snape's head had hit. Snape's glare promised murder.

"Physical violence... I should have known." He closed his dark eyes, his voice low and full of venom. "Go ahead, Potter, get it over with and hit me, break my nose again. Why don't you call me Snivellus while you are at it. Make your father proud."

"I AM NOT..." Harry stepped back, looking at his raised fist as if it belonged to someone else, breathing hard. He started to shake, wrapping his arms around himself. "I am _not_ my father!" His control of the situation fleeing with the realization of what he had nearly done.

Snape struggled to stay upright, fingernails digging into the whitewashed walls. "No, you are not. _He_ didn't leave me to die.." His knees gave and he sank to the floor, defeated.

Harry took a step closer, looking down at Snape who was sitting on the dirty floor, staring into space. He turned away, looking out the window. The remnants of what must once have been a geranium, their shriveled stalks reaching beseechingly towards the grimy window, their bright red pot out of place in this world of dust and gray. "We… we came back for you and, and you were gone... how did you survive?" He ran a hand through his hair, turning away from the yellowing curtains. "We looked for you, you know. How did you?" He sat down next to Snape. "I mean, I saw you die... "

Snape's hand subconsciously covered the vivid scar on his neck. "No thanks to you, or that bloody Order of ours. What did you think?" He sneered. "That I, of all people, rush into battles unprepared... like a silly little _schoolboy_?" Snape ran his fingers over the back of his head, wincing. The tips came back red. He studied them as if he had never seen them before, testing the consistency of his bloody between thumb and forefinger. "I gave everything," his voice contemplative and distant, bitter. "And how did they thank me?"

Harry blinked and shook his head. No, he was not going to let Snape guilt trip him into obedience. "Thank you? Are you out of your mind? You fucking killed Dumbledore!"

"On HIS BLOODY ORDERS!" Snape winced under the volume of his own voice, carrying on in a soft hiss. "And don't you fool yourself, so did you! What did you think you were making him drink in that cave? Pumpkin juice?"

" The cave? But I… He… I just wanted… How do you know? I never told anyone ..." Harry turned towards Snape, blinking, looking guilty.

Snape sneered, his eyes gaining back their dangerous glitter. " Occlumency, Potter. Any _halfway_ skilled Legilimens can read you like and open book. A dull book, certainly, but that is beyond the point. Aren't you supposed to be an Auror or something?"

"Ha, bloody ha." Harry scrambled to his feet, scanning the room for his wand. He found it behind the upturned occasional table and picked it up. "I still miss him." He sat back down next to Snape.

Snape harrumphed, leaned back against the wall, winced and shifted to a more comfortable position. They sat in silence for a while.

"What are we going to do now?" Harry ran his hand through his hair again, giving into the urge to say, well, something.

Snape carefully rested his head against the wall. "Buggered if I know." The toppled over lamp cast his face in shadows, hiding his expression.

Harry reached for his wand, pointing it at Snape, who tried to scramble away, looking alarm. "Going to take your revenge now, Potter?"

"Hold still, will ya." Harry gently lifted Snape's chin, turning his face away from him.

"What do you think you are doing?" Snape tried to jerk away, but Harry held him gently but firm.

"Shush. I have done this before. Let me see if I can ..." Harry ran his fingers through Snape's hair, ghosting over the injury. "Got quiet a bump there, Professor." He could feel Snape suppress a wince. "You know, you kinda had it coming." He watched as the wound closed within seconds of the healing spell. "There, that should fix it."

Harry's hand lingered on the back of Snape's head, untangling the matted strands. Snape leaned into the touch, his face half turned towards Harry, his eyes closed. Harry's hand stilled.

Snape cracked open one eye. "Who said you could stop, Potter. I was enjoying that."

Harry hid a smile but continued the caress, enjoying it more than he would ever admit to anyone. It was strangely soothing. Snape closed his eyes again and Harry's hands, no longer under the scrutiny of that intense stare, developed a mind of their own. Bold fingertips ran over Snape cheek, his thumb brushing Snape's bottom lip. Snape's mouth opened slightly, and Harry gasped when Snape's hot wet tongue touched finger.


	10. Chapter 10

Their eyes met and Harry found himself mesmerized by the heat in Snape's eyes. He leaned closer, being pulled in by the desire in them. He shifted, now face to face with Snape, inches apart, shuddering under the hot breath on his skin. Harry slid his hand caressingly over Snape's five o'clock stubble into his lank hair. He licked his lips.

Snape, watching Harry's pink tongue peek out from between his chapped lips, swallowed, breath shallow and ragged, the urge to reach out, take control, plain on his face, but he remained still, waiting for Harry's next move.

Harry cradled the back of Snape's head, urging him forwards, towards him, and briefly brushing their lips together. Pulling back, he cocked his head, giving Snape an expectant look.

The gentle touch of lips against lips was all the permission Snape needed. Harry found his head held in a vise-like grip, Snape's lips crushing against his, his tongue wet, hot, his lips forcefully demanding to be kissed. Teeth clinked, bit, opening up under the force of pent up passion, of lust denied too long.

Harry felt like falling, and maybe he was, soothing whispers and kisses taking away the pain of being pushed roughly to the hard floor. Snape's leg between his, pressed down in delicious friction, pinning him.

"I know what you want..." he said, fingernails ghosting teasingly up the inside of Harry's thigh, locking eyes with him. "Legilimens!"

Harry's brain was flooded with a whirlwind of memories and emotions. Strands upon strands of his mind, were pulled to the foreground, dissected, discarded, till only the erotic ones were left. Lust, hunger, longing. Overlapping, interweaving, amplifying, leaving nothing but hot red lust. Harry moaned.

"This," Snape's sharp yellow nails raked over the coarse material of Harry's jeans, making him shudder in pleasure. "You want this, don't you Potter? And this…"

Harry found himself captured in another hot kiss, full of teeth and desperation and want.

His jeans were unzipped and hastily yanked down. Snape seized him and began stroking leisurely. Harry moaned and buried his face in Snape neck, his palm flat on Snape's chest.

"Tell me, Hannah, is it just as good as boy..."

"No!" Harry gasped and pushed him away. "NO! Don't. Not like this… I am _not_ her! You sick bastard."

Harry got up from the ground, steading himself on the wall.

"What is it, Potter?" Snape sneered, trying to loom over him. "Your crush on the Half-Blood Prince not living up to reality? And here I thought you were all ready to bend over for me. All willing and nubile. Just like you were in the pub."

Snape muttered something and Harry's arse suddenly felt slippery, tingly, stretched. The sensation made Harry weak in the knees. He advanced on Harry, his voice low and dangerous. "You know you want me, Potter!"

"Shut up. Shut up. For once just shut the fuck up!" Why did the bastard always have to have the last word? Harry grabbed him by the shoulders, his face red with anger. He spun Snape around, pinning him against the wall again. Better, much better. "Why, do you fucking have to do this every bloody time? Things would be so much easier if you weren't such an arse!"

Snape glared down at him and pulled him closer, holding him tight, running his hand suggestively over Harry's arse. And Harry let him. They stood in silence for a while, intensely aware of the other's presence. Snape rested his head on Harry's shoulder, his voice was hot and soft against Harry's skin. "What are we doing here, Potter?"

Harry shrugged and wiggled closer and before Snape could ruin the mood again, shut that annoying mouth the only way he knew how to: with a kiss.

Snape's shirt was ripped open, his protests kissed, licked, bitten away. Harry did not quite remember how he ended up semi-naked, face down and draped over the side of the armchair, but Snape's fingers and tongue made up for any complaints he might have had.

And when Snape's voice, hot and tingling, asked him if he was sure, Harry had but one answer.

"Yes! Oh my god, yes!" Harry wriggled backward, not wanting those talented fingers to stop. Ever. "Dammit, get on with it. I want you! NOW!"

He did.

:::

Snape pressed his heaving chest tight against Harry as they sank into a heap on the ground, fingers entwined, his head cushioned on Harry's shoulder. After a while, Harry removed a shoe from under his back.

"We really have to stop doing this." Harry stood up and popped his shoulders, offering Snape his hand. He wanted this, wanted Snape he suddenly realized. Not that this was sane, or healthy, or that he had any idea why Snape was into this, but it was... a start.

"This?" Snape looked up at him from the floor. There was a slight hint of danger, of uncertainty in his voice.

"Walls!" Harry said and grinned. "I want a bed next time. And you owe me a drink."

"Yes, you do owe me a drink. "

"Still not buying your own drinks?"

Snape smiled as he accepted Harry's proffered hand.

"Why would I if you are so willing. Friday at half seven?"

Harry nodded and returned the smile. It felt good.

-end.


End file.
